


Free Drink

by humdrumbumrush



Category: Bawson, Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9654929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humdrumbumrush/pseuds/humdrumbumrush
Summary: Minor League player Ginny Baker goes to a bar to wallow, instead she has a chance encounter with her idol Mike Lawson.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cafegirlfeelings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cafegirlfeelings/gifts).



They lost by one in an extra inning, and Ginny was intent on carbo-loading away her sorrows. It was already a rough week. Blip had been called up on Tuesday. He was now officially a Padre, and good for him. It was an amazing opportunity and she knew he was going to rock it. But he was gone and so was Evelyn and their boys. She was all alone again in the Minors, meant to stave off male stupidity by herself. She tried not to look disappointed at the farewell dinner… or Evelyn’s shopping day because San Diego meant an “entire new wardrobe now that I’m an MLB wife”… or the family Skype chat to show off their new condo.

She was allowing herself this week to wallow, and the game loss was just the toothpick in a wallow sandwich. Speaking of which, a sandwich sounded really good at that moment. Ginny ordered one to go with the full plate of fries that were set in front of her at the end of the bar.

The highlight reel running on one of the many television bolted above the bar did not help matters. Blip was on his way to grounding a double, when the sportscaster made an interesting aside:

“There was the notable absence of catcher Mike Lawson. Who was suspended for three games after a brawl with the ump at home plate. Some guys just don’t like to strike out.”

Ginny chuckled into her beer. That sounded like the Mike Lawson she had hanging on her bedroom wall. The Mike Lawson that she hoped someday to call a teammate. The Mike Lawson that had just entered the bar…

Holy shit, that’s him. That’s him! That’s Mike Lawson! THE Mike Lawson! Composure was the name of the game. A game that Ginny was losing with every gruff step the catcher made to a seat in front of the bartender. They shook cordially shook hands, but Mike maintained a terse shorthand. “Scotch. Neat.” On second thought, he motioned for two.

Ginny was elbow deep in a turkey club when she noticed a small tumbler slide in front of her. Scotch. Neat. Was she suppose to drink that?

“Oh.” She choked out. “Thanks, but…”

“You’re not gonna let me drink alone. Are you?”

Ginny motioned to her bottle of beer that she failed to mention was empty. For the first time in a while, she was at a loss for words. He was bigger in person. More commanding than she expected… also drunker than she expected.

“I see.” Mike slid three stools over to retrieve his rebuffed drink, but not before offering a small observation. “You’ve got a healthy appetite there.”

She pushed her plate of fries over towards him. It was his turn to rebuff her. That’s fine, she helped herself to more ketchup, and refocused on the sportscaster. Can’t embarrass yourself, if you don’t speak.

“You like baseball?” Mike asked.

“It’s not bad. Do you like baseball?” The young pitcher gambled on how long she could play this game with him. It beat a real conversation.

“I’m more of a football guy.” He would play too. “So tell me, is there a place around here where a guy like me can crash for the night?” He leaned towards her. Subtlety out the window, with the smell of medium-priced beer and musk in the air.

The moment swelled with possibility… from Mike’s end. The sweet silence between was punctuated by cheers at the scoreless game projected above them. He took a chance, dancing his fingers across the dark granite of the bar, and casually rested his hand atop hers. Before he could even get comfortable, Ginny dropped from under his grasp and reached back for her fries, shoving a few in her mouth. Damn good fries. “Well, there’s a Quality Inn by the airport. You might wanna get some rest. The suspension’s only for three days.”

His game was shot in the face before it had even begun. “You know who I am.”

Boy, did she. “Mike Lawson. Number 36. Catcher for the San Diego Padres. Lover of all women. Not much of a hint-taker. Do you know who I am?”

“I think you’re about to tell me. Or have you told me before, and I just never called you back? That’s possible too. And if so, I apologize. It’s this damn new phone. Put your number in again. I’ll label it ‘Hot Texan from the Bar.’”

She offered her hand across the stool. “Ginny Baker. Pitcher for the—”

“AAA team. Padres. Your reputation precedes you.”

“As a pitcher?” She was skeptical.

“As a girl who pitches, yes.” The jury was still out on whether he meant for that to come out as dickish as it did, but all signs pointed to he did. His brow softened and he offered, “Look, if I’d known who you were, I wouldn’t have—”

“Hit on me… in a bar… in the middle of Texas. Quick question: why are you in Texas?”

A smile peaked out through the wooly beard he was freshly sporting. “Came to see a couple minor league games. Wanted to stay humble.”

“How’s that working for you?”

“Not so good. I am sorry, by the way. For hitting on you… in a bar… in the middle of Texas.”

Ginny waved away the notion. “Perfectly alright.”

“I can hit on you on the sidewalk in front of the bar, if that helps move this along.”

“I’m sorry?” Disbelief washed over her, as if her big brother had just said Serena Williams was overrated.

Out of pure impulse, Ginny grabbed the abandoned scotch between them and chucked it straight in his face, most of it disappearing into his beard.

Over it, she shoulder-checked him on her way out of the door. 

“I’m guessing that’s a no?” Mike inquired to the back of her head, too busy drying his face with leftover cocktail napkins. He answered lowly to himself, “Yup, that’s a no… Scotch burns, you know.” To hell with it, he reached for a french fry on the pitcher’s leftover plate and dipped it in ketchup. He paused at the sound of footsteps ascending towards him. Without even looking at him, Ginny palmed the rest of her sandwich from her plate, and headed back toward the exit.

Yup, that’s a no.


End file.
